


Like the Orinoco Flows

by Jolien



Category: Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle (2017)
Genre: Cartography, Dig Sites, Eventual Smut, Game Characters Only, M/M, Origin Story, Paleontology, Professor Sheldon, Rating will change, Student Jefferson, University Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: Sheldon Oberon met Jeff McDonough for the first time at the university of Manaus, long before either of them ever entertained the idea of going to Jumanji.
Relationships: Jefferson "Seaplane" McDonough/Professor Sheldon "Shelly" Oberon
Comments: 35
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first few chapters of this story were originally written in the **summer of 2018**. I recently re-discovered them in my WIP folders after watching the trailer for _Jumanji: The Next Level_ and thought maybe posting them now would finally motivate me enough to finish the story. This means there will be discrepancies in writing style later down the line.

Professor Sheldon Oberon headed up the broad staircase to the office of the dean of faculty with hurried steps. His shoes squeaked on the tropical wood, smoothed and polished from generations of staff and students, disturbing the hushed midday quiet. The corridors were deserted except for him, still and dusty, while through the skylights the sun over Manaus slapped onto the beige walls and radiated back as pure heat.

Oberon wiped the sweat from his brow, so used to the motion by now that it had become automatic, and knocked on the door.

Dean Richard Thorpe greeted him with a pearly white, gap-toothed smile. He jumped from his seat, smoothed back his salt-and-pepper hair and came around the desk with his hand stuck out. “Sheldon! You’re back early.”

Oberon couldn’t help but mirror the smile as he shook the dean’s hand. Even though Thorpe must have sat here all morning in his gray, well-fitting three-piece, he was somehow less sweaty.

“My friend Byron flew me in this morning.”

“Good, good. Good to have you back.” Thorpe returned to his chair but remained standing. “Congratulations, by the way. A hundred and sixty fossil findings in six months, that’s a number you gotta wrap your tongue around.”

He sounded as proud as if it were his own – or his kid’s – accomplishment.

Oberon sighed. “My desk looked just as appalling as I predicted. That’s actually why I’m here. I need a favor.”

“Anything, my friend,” Thorpe said warmly. “With the success you’re having, anything.”

“I need a research assistant.”

The words fell like a glacier shard into the arctic sea. Dean Thorpe winced. “Almost anything.”

He fiddled with the buttons of his jacket – with a vest underneath, that masochist – and then started pacing along the wall. His office, now that Oberon thought about it, looked exactly like the last time he’d been in here, including the giant, dusty map of South America on the wall to his right that was, to everyone’s confusion, upside down.

“Anything but that. Our funds are literally flowing down the Orinoco right now, Shelly. As you well know. We’re sending students there: archaeology, paleontology, everyone is in.” Thorpe stopped at the map and grinned. “How is it, _down_ in Venezuela?”

Oberon felt a stab of irritation. He refused to let the dean change the subject on him. “Have you seen my office? If we want to make a dent in that before the February conference in São Paulo, I need help.”

“Nice use of the plural there,” Thorpe said dryly. “Making all of this a shared problem.”

Oberon’s lips twitched. “I do my best.”

The dean ran a hand through his hair again. His gaze dropped to the masses of colored papers on his desk. Most of them were turning yellow at the edges because they had been waiting for his signature for so long.

Through the slit of a half open window, which was really more of a mosquito-net covered skylight, voices filtered in. They were too far away to make out words, but still close enough to feel the pulsing life of the student body: the bellicosity with which the young attacked a discussion, the energy in every shriek of outrage, the clinking of bottles whether arguments were resolved or shelved for a later date. Sometimes, Oberon wished himself back to that easier time, when he only had to fund himself.

Eventually, Thorpe straightened. “You’ll have to share. With the cartography department.”

Were he not an adult man slip-sliding right through the best years of his life into middle age on the grease of scientific research, Oberon’s jaw would have dropped. Instead, he just stared, probably looking vaguely dumb. “You’re joking, right? This is not a paperwork desk job I need a student to slob through, I need to literally _unbury_ my office from priceless fossils, Richard. Those samples need careful handling, not some, some cartography brute who thinks if he messes up a drawing, he can just re-do it. A million years of evolution aren’t that easily _redone_.”

Thorpe threw his hands in the air, again. His wedding ring glittered, its gold polished from where he fingered it whenever he was deep in thought. “I know you’ve been working overtime on a tight budget, but it’s this or nothing, Sheldon.”

Oberon put his hands on his hips. “Do you know who I am?”

The dean looked up curiously. “My oldest friend?”

Oberon deflated. Thorpe was right: they had been friends almost since they both squeezed their asses into the wooden folding chairs that still filled the lecture halls of Manaus university back then, staring up in wonder at the orange-tinted images thrown on the wall by a groaning projector while listening to a dinosaur of a professor emphasize the importance of tenderness when excavating with a broom. “Yeah.”

The dean pulled a paper from his stack of hell-in-printed-form. “Do you want him or not?”

A sinking feeling spread through Oberon’s gut. He slumped. “If there’s a hole in your boat, you better bail.”

–

Two days later, Oberon was again running, this time to his own office. Coming back to the university, there never seemed enough hours in the day to get everything in order. He’d spent the morning reacquainting himself with the administration: picking up his mail and paychecks from the six months he’d been away, filling out overly detailed expense reports and lastly, collecting his new teaching schedule. He was back just in time to take over the undergrads, apparently.

Hassling over that tiny, not-agreed-upon detail had taken all of his lunch break, and now he was late for his meeting with the young man the cartography department had seen fit to saddle him with.

Truth be told, it was more of a formality. Oberon had no intention of letting him anywhere near his precious unidentified samples, but dean Thorpe would not listen to his complaints until he’d at least given it a chance. He just needed enough to declare the boy unsuitable, and that would be it. Shared or not, he’d be damned if he didn’t at least get one of his own students on the job.

He hastened around the corner at the end of the hallway. His office was at the very edge of the west wing, with a giant round ficus blocking the way. Except for his office, the old faculty library and a never used conference room turned storage closet, there was nothing back here, which meant running into people was a rarity.

As it was, Oberon almost bowled over Dr. Andrew Seymour, the slim, long asparagus of a man who headed the archaeology department.

“Shelly, you’re back early!”

Oberon rolled his eyes. “I heard.”

Behind Andrew, a second person came into view. It was a young man with short, dark hair and a slim face halfway obscured by tinted aviator glasses. His white t-shirt was as tight as his camouflage shorts were loose.

“Shelly, this is Jefferson McDonough.” Andrew tugged the student closer and grinned. “I heard you’ll be taking up most of his time in the near future.”

Oberon raised an eyebrow. The boy didn’t look like the usual cartography students with their drawing pads, measuring tools and calculators. “If he doesn’t run screaming once he sees what’s behind these doors.”

McDonough’s lips twitched. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Professor.”

They shook hands. The young man’s grip was surprisingly firm.

Andrew chuckled, but at Oberon’s dark look, he immediately schooled his expression. “If you’ll excuse me, then? I have to whip an entire class into shape before I let them traipse all over our precious exclusive dig site.”

Oberon watched him leave with a shake of his head and then opened the door to his office. A wall of heat and stone dust slammed into his face. The whole room, from the desk on the far wall to the small sofa wedged between his beloved mahogany bookcases was overflowing with wooden boxes. Most of them were thick, heavy crates, supporting towers of smaller containers about the size of wine cases. Single pieces were strewn all over the floor, wrapped securely in different fabrics, strips of morning papers and one even in Oberon’s third favorite shirt.

Upon first stepping into the room, scanning his surroundings, he felt a wave of relief. Nothing seemed obviously damaged or missing. But a little burst of annoyance quickly followed: with this mess all around, he couldn’t even make it to his desk, much less offer his guest a chair.

He turned to the young man, who was looking around with interest. Or, well, at least he was looking, it was hard to make out his expression behind the glasses.

Oberon briefly wondered if it would be rude to ask him to take them off. Then he wondered why he even cared. He thought about what he should say. This was not an interview, because McDonough had already been hired, but he had to know who he was dealing with.

“So,” he cleared his throat. “Why are you interested in paleontology, Mr. McDonough? And archaeology as well, I suppose.”

“Call me Jefferson, please, or Jeff,” McDonough replied. “I feel old when a professor calls me by my last name. No offense.”

He carefully stepped around a crate and inspected a fossil on the bookcase, perched next to a wooden tiger statue about the size of a puppy. Both were souvenirs from Oberon’s time in Guam. McDon- no, Jefferson, looked at it for a moment, then took of his glasses and smiled. All of a sudden, the room seemed bathed in sunshine.

Jefferson had brown eyes, the color of dark chocolate toffee or wet earth, and there was a glint to them: a special kind of energy that would have him bouncing off the walls if he didn’t contain it; a liveliness that was mirrored in the ready-to-go tension of his body and radiated off him in crackling waves.

Oberon felt like he’d been hit in the face. He could do nothing but stare.

“My grandfather was a passionate archaeologist. Not by trade, sadly, but by training. He was fond of the plants, too, most of the time,” Jefferson said, turning back to the tiger. “Once, he took me with him to a dig site in France. Jurassic limestone, I think. They let me help with the preparation a bunch, mostly just cleaning, but I think that’s what got the little boy inside me excited about it.” A smile spread over his face, making him look even more handsome. “What about you?”

Taken aback, Oberon frowned. “Me?”

“Yeah. Obviously you made it a lot father than me in this field. You must love it.”

Oberon blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked that question. Or if he ever had been. He’d just… begun his studies, one day, and he’d been so good at them that continuing seemed like the logical conclusion.

He shrugged a little helplessly. “I... I guess so.”

Jefferson’s smile widened, showing a perfectly aligned row of white teeth. He waved a hand, indicating the whole room. “Where’s all this from? I don’t speak much Spanish and I’m afraid I haven’t picked up half the Portuguese I’m writing my mum about, so those labels mean nothing. Honestly, I’m still counting my blessings that most professors here lecture in English.”

Oberon felt a faint stir of amusement. “It’s the logical choice to teach in the language the research is conducted in.”

He picked up the shirt-wrapped fossil to reveal the writing on the closest crate.

Jefferson’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Orinoco, eh? What’cha looking for, that deep in the Amazon? El Dorado?”

Oberon let out a startled laugh. “Nothing quite so interesting, I’m afraid.”

He started unwrapping the fossil. “We’re dealing with remains of early settlements here. Human and mammal history – or at least the few traces the river hasn’t washed away yet. You might have heard of the Urumacu formation?”

“The one in the northwest, where they’re finding the big animals from twenty million years ago?”

The youthful enthusiasm was weirdly contagious. But Oberon kept it down. “Correct. We are... not dealing with that one.”

Jefferson deflated. “Oh.”

“I’m going to be honest with you: I had reservations about this. I still have them. It’s long, boring, repetitive work and I can’t afford to have a student play around in here who will not pay the utmost attention to every single piece and brush stroke. But –,” his expression softened. Jefferson was charming, witty, and he seemed genuinely interested in the work, at least for now. Oberon knew all too well how quickly that changed once the students got a clearer picture of what it meant to be a paleontologist. Most of them didn’t bother, dropping the subject to focus on more ‘interesting’ parts of the field, but this young man had a particular kind of enthusiasm about him. Grudgingly, Oberon had to admit that Jefferson was exactly the kind of assistant he would have hired himself. Which Thorpe probably knew when he’d offered him the deal. Well played. “I’m willing to give this a try.”

Jefferson’s brash grin lit up the room. “Then I better do my best.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jefferson proved to be a snug fit for the position. Even though he could come and go as he pleased, he kept almost regular hours, working late afternoon to early evening three days a week. Oberon joined him after he was done wrangling the undergrads. One time, Jefferson dropped by at half past seven in the morning, coffee in hand, and found Oberon already at his desk, which they had just managed to dig out from the mounds of fossils. He came by in the morning quite often after that to squeeze in an hour or two.

He was also a quick study. It took only a few concise explanations and a bit of familiarity with the toolkit – they tested it out on the less sensitive specimens – before he knew how to clean and prepare a fossil for identification. They worked side by side in comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional comment on any light topic. It all felt very familiar.

Oberon was determined not to let himself be charmed anymore, no matter how smart Jefferson’s observations were. Yet, after a week and a half, he trusted the boy enough to let him work in the office on a Saturday afternoon, when the university lay still and silent.

It was a slow day. Since many of the specimens that were wrapped individually required Oberon’s personal expertise, they had cracked open the first of the fourteen crates from Venezuela. Jefferson was sorting through its content with wide eyes. “Wow, is this hand-drawn? This is amazing, professor.”

Oberon looked up from the imprint of a fern he was scrubbing out of a piece of stone.

Jefferson held up a large, rectangular piece of paper, white on the back, but with large patches of blues and greens on the front, crisscrossed by red and black lines. It was rubbed raw around the edges and whitened along the folding lines.

“The original, maybe,” said Oberon. “This is certainly a copy. That’s the Orinoco river valley around the main dig site. Have you been there?”

“Not yet.”

Jefferson placed the map on the floor and flattened the surface with his palm. The light blue streak of the Orinoco spread from the bottom left to the top right corner, surrounded by muted green jungle. Landmarks were indicated in an array of red symbols, annotations in black. He put his finger right in the middle. “This is where all these samples come from?”

Oberon squinted. Even with his glasses on, he couldn’t read the black inscriptions while sitting at his desk. He stood up and came over, frowning at the dust roads that were barely passable by truck. “Most of them. If you move your finger up the river a little – yeah. Around there we have another promising spot. It’s not on this map yet, but if we find any others, it should be marked.”

Jefferson tilted his head. “That must have been hard to reach. If I’m reading these lines correctly, the slope is quite steep.”

That was generous. They had been tumbling down towards the river in a free-fall most of the time, pulling out samples coated in silt and slick while surrounded by swarms of mosquitoes in the sweltering midday heat. Every morning, they had prayed to get out of there again before the afternoon rainstorms could jeopardize an entire day’s worth of work.

Oberon winced. “It was like descending into hell. The main dig site is much more accessible.”

“Over here, right?” Jefferson traced a path that split off the main road, very close to the few huts and tents that made up their camp. “Or maybe this?”

Oberon tried to cross-reference what he saw on the map with his experience, but it was only when he got down on his knees for a closer inspection that he found what he was looking for. And that was how he ended up explaining the site and geography, while Jefferson listened closely, only throwing in a few comments here and there when he wanted clarification on a particular detail.

“Why didn’t you use the bridge?” He pointed at the map, interrupting Oberon’s explanation on how they had gotten the samples to the main road. “The terrain looks like it could be passable, but I guess the ravine is too close to your precious cargo this way.”

“I...,” Oberon blinked, then frowned. “We worked mainly upriver and used the back roads, the thought of going through the jungle never crossed our minds.” Heat seeped into his cheeks. “Also, I don’t think anyone noticed that tiny marker. You have a good eye.”

Jefferson beamed. “That’s why I’m studying cartography. Nothing beats a bird’s eye view.”

“Uh? Yeah, I suppose?”

He didn’t say anything else, and Oberon took a moment to study the young man. He hunched over the map with a focused expression: a little red in the face, forehead sweaty in the moist afternoon, fingers fidgeting at the edge of the paper, which he didn’t even seem to realize. Oberon could just imagine it, right then: Jefferson in a thick leather jacket, aviator glasses over his eyes and the world tiny below him as he soared high above. He would read the landscape as unerringly as he read the lines on the map.

The boy looked up and grinned. “Hey, professor? What time is it?”

Oberon startled. “Uh, half past five, maybe five?”

Jefferson’s eyes widened. He jumped to his feet. “Is it, really? I promised my friends to be around by five. Where do I put all this until Mond– no, wait, Tuesday?”

He gestured at the fossils and the map that were spread over the carpet, not yet sorted except into vague piles by size.

Oberon waved him off. “Leave it.”

At least they could now see the carpet.

Jefferson’s jaw dropped. “Really? I can clean this up before I go, no problem, professor.”

He said it with intent: he had already been here long enough to pick up on the fact that Oberon hated a messy office.

“No, it’s fine.” Oberon shook his head. “Can’t have you late for your meeting with your friends.”

“Thank you, professor.”

With a smile, Jefferson ran out the door. There was a hitch in his step when he dodged the ficus and then his footsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Oberon took in his office. His fingers itched with the urge to clean it up, but the clock on his desk told him it was ten to five. The afternoon had passed so quickly with Jefferson here, asking questions about the dig site and listening with raw enthusiasm, he’d pulled Oberon right in. He felt a warm flutter in his belly, pleased that he’d been able to provide the boy with information.

The bridge marker on the map beckoned him. If it still existed, why hadn’t they used it? The map was not brand new: maybe the bridge had been demolished after it was drawn?

Oberon got up and stretched his cracking limbs. The faculty had a map room with a large collection that spanned all of South America, with Venezuela as one of their main points of interest. Maybe not so much the Orinoco itself, because no one expected fossils under the river slick, but it was worth a try.

He stopped by his door and looked back. Thirteen unopened and one open crate stared at him. He... didn’t really have time for this.

Oberon bit his lip. Then he stepped out into the corridor.

There was no harm in furthering the boy’s education, especially not if Oberon could learn something in the process.

–

Being an excellent researcher had its downsides: a week later, Oberon struggled not to stumble under the weight of all the material he managed to dig up.

Next to him, Professor Gunsteen, self-appointed warden of the archives, carried the second load. He was almost as round as Oberon, with the same soft face and tiny glasses, but he walked with a hunch and his beard was a clean, crisp white. A good thirty years separated them and, in his darker moments, Oberon reckoned it was like looking into a mirror showing him his future. This would be him in a while, and while that idea always managed to amuse him a little bit, it was also quite terrifying: where had the time gone, and where his youth? That kind of thing.

Professor Gunsteen grunted under the weight of the papers. “Remind me why you need these, again?”

“For an interested student,” replied Oberon, breathless himself. “Actually, he’s a research assistant for the cartography department.”

Gunsteen snorted. “So we’re associating with that crowd now?”

“Well, you know.” Oberon hitched his load higher so the maps wouldn’t slip out from under his arms. “They’re always on our backs for collaborating, might get something out of it.”

They turned down the empty corridor, heading for the ficus. Its dark green, smooth leaves were starting to bend down the middle, along the thick artery that carried the plant’s life blood – water and sugar – between stem and root. It was a sign of dryness; if the yellow splotches that became visible when they drew nearer weren’t enough of a hint.

Oberon made a mental note to water the thing soon, since the janitor obviously couldn’t be bothered. “Every form of science has their own rules about how nature and the world works. But in the end, it’s always a combination of factors. The old universal geniuses had it right: Leonardo da Vinci, Charles Darwin, even Goethe if you want. They understood the world better than we do, with all our procedures and protocols and carefully planned repetitions. They certainly didn’t let minor details like thematic overlap stop their curiosity.”

Professor Gunsteen let out a scratchy grumble. Then he cleared his throat. “You weren’t this idealistic when you ran off to play mud-throwing in Venezuela.” Stopping abruptly in front of Oberon’s door, he turned on his heel to face him and shook his handful of rustling, almost bone-dry paper. “All for a student, Oberon? Do you really have time for this?”

Oberon’s eyes widened. He looked away.

Because Gunsteen was right, he probably didn’t. But here he was, with hours worth of stories in his arms, without even knowing exactly why. Or, well, he knew why, but he’d rather bite his tongue off before revealing it to his colleague. It was just the thought of Jefferson’s broad, carefree smile; the way his dark eyes narrowed and crinkled, that had Oberon head to the archives this morning to collect all the maps of Venezuela he could find.

“There’s nothing wrong with furthering the education of a man who is actually interested in the field,” he said carefully and shot Gunsteen a baleful look. “Unlike the freshmen you shoveled so cunningly onto my plate.”

Professor Gunsteen mirrored his flat expression, but before he could voice the wry comment that was undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue, the door in front of them burst open, revealing a brightly beaming Jeff. “Professor Oberon, good to see you – oh.”

His eyes locked on Gunsteen and he seemed to shrink a little. “Hello, professor.”

Gunsteen sighed. “I should have known it was you.”

He shoved the maps into Jeff’s hands. “Do not make a mess of these,” he warned, took his glasses off to give them a quick swipe and then nodded at Oberon in goodbye.

As soon as he was out of earshot, well on his way back to his beloved archive, Jeff let out a shuddering exhale. “God, he’s creepy.”

A sting in Oberon’s chest had him narrow his eyes. “I’ll kindly ask you not to repeat that again,” he said sternly. It wasn’t the boy’s place to judge his teacher – or any man more than half a century his senior. “Strive for politeness when you can not be friendly, in any situation.”

Jeff ducked his head. “Yes, professor.”

Oberon trudged into the room and dumped the slew of maps onto his desk. Behind him, he heard the scuffing of boots, and then Jeff’s cheerful tone was back.

“What is all this, Prof? More maps?”

Heat suffused Oberon’s cheeks and a strange warmth spread through him at the unselfconscious display of happiness, though he didn’t know exactly why. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I thought you might be interested in getting to know the area a little more. Only if you’re interested, of course.”

Jeff laughed out loud. “Are you kidding? Of course I am!”

He sidled up next to Oberon and reached for the trembling mountain of paper. As soon as his fingertips touched the tip, the whole thing crumbled, scattering all over the desk. Several slipped over the edge, fluttering to the floor.

“Oops, sorry,” Jeff mumbled and bend to pick it up. His jacket hiked up his back, pulling the shirt underneath along to reveal a white strip of skin, right above the blue of his jeans and the soft brown leather of his belt.

Oberon’s mouth went dry.

Before he could do anything, Jeff popped back up, frowning at the crinkly paper between his fingers. “Guam – Nineteen-something? That’s a little ways off from Venezuela, professor.”

Brow furrowing, Oberon checked the map. It was indeed not from the Orinoco, easily distinguishable by the steep mountain formations and utter lack of the river itself. “That’s from a previous expedition,” he said slowly. “It must have slipped in with these.”

Probably because Gunsteen sorted his material by who used it, but that Oberon didn’t say.

Jefferson raised an eyebrow at him. There was a strange glow on his face that looked suspiciously like awe. “You have been all over the world, haven’t you?”

Oberon blushed a little more. “A few places,” he admitted. “It’s not like I’ve seen much of the culture or anything. I’m knee-deep in mud and soil, most of the time, digging for things people don’t need.”

The glow didn’t fade. “What were you doing in Guam?”

“Cataloging foraminifera fossils to date Miocene formations,” said Oberon. “It’s quite interesting, actually, because most of the bedrock is volcanic. The limestone sedimentation must have happened between eruptions.”

Jeff’s long, white fingers stroked over the somewhat faded mint green of the map. The same fingers that curled around the handle of a brush with utmost care. He even had that little dip between his eyebrows, that same expectant expression he always got when working out complicated pieces.

Oberon fell quiet. They didn’t actually have the time for this. Gunsteen was right: neither of them got paid for his reminiscence.

“Professor?”, asked Jeff, breaking the quiet.

Oberon pulled himself together and nodded at their toolkit. He made sure to keep his tone light. “Grab yourself a fossil and sit down. You can listen and work at the same time.”

Jeff laughed, carefree again, that big smile that looked so good on his face. “Sure can, professor.”


	3. Chapter 3

Whistling and with a spring in his step, Oberon made his way to his office. He’d been walking progressively slower the more weeks passed, the urgency of the first few days replaced by the complacency of the daily trot, but his enthusiasm for the afternoons hadn’t diminished.

Today, they’d finish up what was left of crate number four. After that, they’d put up the Christmas decorations around his office and in the hallway outside. All of those had been donations from his students, who thought, collectively, that he needed more joy in his life. He liked them anyway.

They might not get it all done, but Oberon was optimistic. He and Jeff had developed a good routine: he would tell the stories while Jeff listened, throwing in the occasional comment. Those had gotten more witty and intelligent the more he learned about the subject. He was almost able to recite the currently accepted version of the geologic time table from memory, including the corresponding dates, and in turn, Oberon’s knowledge about cartography had increased in bounds. Sometimes, it almost felt like he was conversing with a colleague, or maybe a post-graduate working on his doctorate. That illusion shattered as soon as someone broke out a map and Jeff morphed into an enthusiastic child, but Oberon found himself smiling more and more fondly every time it happened.

He stopped in front of his door, dug the key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock.

With a silent click, it opened, and a rush of hot air blew into his face. Autumn had bled into winter, at least for the northern half of the globe, but that didn’t make much of a difference in Manaus. It just got drier and hotter as the rains ceased to fall.

Just inside the door, Oberon’s gaze fell on an open crate and he frowned.

Carefully wrapped fossils nestled between thick wads of newspaper, rolled pieces of cloth and various other cushioning materials. It was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that it looked much fuller than he remembered from the previous evening. But it had been late, then, and the lighting at that hour left much to be desired.

Oberon bit his lip. Would they even get as far as the Christmas decorations today? It would be a shame not to put them up, but of course the actual work took precedence.

A slamming door at the far end of the hallway alerted him to his approaching ‘assistant.’

He turned, walked back to the ficus and peered around the corner. Jefferson loped up the hallway with long, easy strides. He pushed his ever-present aviator glasses up into his hair when he spotted Oberon, and hurried to join him.

“No story-time today,” Oberon told him, before he could even get a word out. “We have to get some work done.”

The student’s face fell. “I am allowed to talk, though, right?”

Oberon’s lips twitched. “Yes.”

“Oh, good.” Jeff sucked in a relieved breath, eyes twinkling with mirth. He followed Oberon into his office and snatched up his tools from where he left them on the crate lid. “Because I thought I needed to tell you that I’m leaving for winter break, um, soon.”

Oberon’s eyes widened. But he pressed his lips together and bit down on his immediate reply of ‘no.’ He couldn’t keep Jeff away from his family. Not only would it be way above both of their pay grades to stay, it would also be cruel beyond measure.

“I would stay in a heartbeat,” Jefferson said, jerking Oberon from his thoughts.

He looked up and found the boy sitting beside the crate, picking out his next piece. He didn’t meet his professor’s eyes, but his face was solemn. “But I haven’t been home since the long summer break, and my mother is getting impatient.”

“Well,” said Oberon and broke off. He sat down at his desk, where a beautifully preserved indentation of what could have been some kind of prehistoric spoon was waiting to be cleaned. He picked up his brush.

Jeff didn’t say anything. The silence felt a little strange, after the long days of conversation.

“Why are you studying in Manaus? You’re from America, correct?,” Oberon asked into the quiet, determined not to let his assistant’s imminent departure ruin the afternoon. “There are more than a couple of very good schools much closer to your family. Not to mention other kinds of training,” he added with a pointed look at the aviator glasses and leather jacket. It might have been too presumptuous, though, because Jeff’s face closed.

“My family insisted on higher education,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly. “I took the chance to do it somewhere I could gain some non-American experiences.”

Oberon hadn’t heard this tone from him before, but he knew it from his other students. It was the same one they used to swear that they’d done their homework assignments, even though they weren’t on his desk. The tone they used to explain themselves out of cheating accusations.

But he didn’t call Jeff out on his lie. His family was a private matter.

So Oberon just went back to his work, resigning himself to getting much less done than he’d hoped for.

– 

Not getting things done seemed to have become a trend recently. As always, it took Oberon a while to recognize it: his unwillingness to work, the lure of his soft pillow and warm blanket, and the dread, every time he had to roll himself out of his cot in the tiny one-room apartment at the edge of the campus grounds. He was still counting his blessings that he didn't have to lodge in student housing, like a few of his unfortunate younger colleagues, but it would have made him see the signs of stagnation earlier.

As it was, it needed an awfully slow Friday morning for him to finally become aware. Slurping his third cup of coffee and trying – failing – to focus on the newest issue of the _Journal of Palaeontology_ he'd pilfered from the library, it suddenly came to him: He didn’t want to go to work.

Which was a flashing red warning light if there’d ever been one. Coincidentally, it was also the day Jefferson had to leave for America and Oberon would be alone with his mountain of fossils, but that had nothing to do with it. It couldn’t.

He finished his coffee and went to give his morning lecture. The crowd of sophomores attending was steadily dwindling away, but that didn't bother him. The less essays he had to grade at the end of the semester, the better.

After, instead of going back to the piles of work in his office, he fetched his swimming trunks and headed to the university’s private pool.

He had been – and sometimes still fancied himself – a dedicated swimmer. He liked it for several reasons: it helped him to stay in shape, although he always had to try and do it more regularly, the cool water was a blessing in the early afternoon heat of Manaus and it was one of the few types of physical exercise that didn't make him looking like a sweaty tomato.

Most of the students had either already returned to their parents to spend the holidays. Or they were out to get lunch, or swearing up a storm in the library, or had passed out on their couches in egg-nogg induced bliss – whatever it was, the pool was empty.

Oberon, having changed and locked away his belongings, lowered himself into the water with a sigh of bliss. It lapped up his legs, the edge of it a cold line over his thighs, hips and finally his elbows and chest. A shiver ran over his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end, and he let out a relieved groan. He'd almost forgotten he could be this cool.

The water drove the fatigue from his limbs. He looked up and down the pool with a sudden surge of energy, gauging the distance. There was only one other swimmer – he recognized her from the law department… or was it philosophy? – which left plenty of space for him. Fifty laps, he decided, should do the trick. If he finished in two hours, he could even do some fossilwork later, or, even better: get himself a hot chocolate with whipped cream.

But he’d barely started, sinking into an old, familiar rhythm of kicking and floating, and allowing the world to fade away behind the soothing movement of his muscles, when he heard a slow clap from the side of the pool.

He looked up. The first thing he noticed was that the law professor had left. Then he spotted the black clad figure on the sidelines: a gangly young man with dark aviator glasses over his handsome, pale face. He lifted his hand and waved.

Shaking the water out of his hair, Oberon waved back. It only occurred to him after that it might be a little inappropriate – or at least highly unprofessional – of him to meet a student like this. But now that he’d acknowledged his presence, he couldn’t take it back. So he might as well see what he wanted.

With a powerful stroke, Oberon propelled himself towards the edge of the pool.

Jeff’s slim form came clearer into focus: his perfectly styled curls and his capable hands, white against his dark pants. The bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed to bursting. He pushed his glasses up and into his hair, as he was wont to do, revealing his licorice dark eyes. There was a hazy glow to them, and his tongue was pink between his lips.

Abruptly, Oberon was reminded that he was almost naked. A flush rose into his cheeks, barely tempered by the cool of the water. He reached the shallow part of the pool, where it was just high enough to cover his nipples. The hair on his chest clung to his skin, as if sweat-soaked, floating downwards, not even attempting to hide his embarrassing flab.

Oh, well. At least now the boy’s more personal interest should be done with, Oberon thought, half relieved and half… no, no other ‘half.’ He should be relieved... and he was. Surely. He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, blinking the rest of the water away.

Jeff hadn’t moved an inch from the edge. Water splashed around his sandals, making his toenails glint.

“Hello, Jefferson.”

Jeff’s lips twitched into a lopsided grin. His brown eyes were trained on Oberon, but his gaze seemed to linger lower at the same time: around his collarbone. None too subtly, they slid away, over Oberson’s man-boobs – they were not pecs, definitely not – and slightly round belly to catch on his trunks.

Wherever his gaze fell, a prickling heat flared to life under Oberon’s skin, like a physical sensation. More warmth flooded his cheeks. His ears burned, and so did his forehead. But even though his heart was beating in his throat, hard and fast, it didn’t feel awkward per-se. Just… warm.

Jeff breathed in, nostrils flaring.

Very aware of the tomato-color his face had assumed in the meantime, Oberon cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

Jeff didn’t say anything for a few moments, lazily dragging his eyes up. “Just wanted to wish you a pleasant winter break, professor,” he said, with a voice that sounded like he’d just gotten out of bed.

Oberon’s skin tingled. Pleasant surprise spread through his body before he could stop it. He squashed it, determined not to let any of it show on the outside. “You too, Jeff.”

“Thanks, professor. Um. I actually– I thought–”

The student broke off. There was a slight dusting of pink coloring his cheeks; his usual smooth confidence wavering a bit.

Oberon made a questioning noise.

“Nothing,” Jeff said, waving his hand quickly. He looked away. “See you in January, alright, professor?”

Oberon forced a smile. It came far too easily. “Of course.”

Jeff’s lips pulled into the all-too-familiar, lopsided grin. “You got it, prof.”

He turned to leave. Oberon watched him go, hips swaying, knees bending with his swagger. All of a sudden, the water felt bitterly cold.

Jeff was his student. Oberon _couldn’t_ be attracted to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what I had pre-written. (In fact, a third of this chapter was already 'new.') I'll try to keep the differences in writing style to a minimum, but I can't promise it'll sound exactly the same. Thanks for sticking with the story, everyone. :)


	4. Chapter 4

All of the evidence was purely circumstantial, Oberon repeated in his head, for what must have been the hundredth time since the start of the winter holidays. The lighting in the gym hadn’t been good; it was tinted with the blue of the tiles at the bottom of the pool, making it easy to imagine the way Jeff’s eyes went dark as they slid over Oberon’s body.

Which was the crucial point, actually: Oberon _knew_ he wasn’t an attractive man. Even the distortion of the water’s surface couldn’t hide his bulging belly, and the flush of exertion didn’t make his skin any less ghastly pale. And those were just his physical disadvantages. It was hard to imagine _anyone_ being attracted to him, let alone someone as young, gorgeous and as familiar with him as Jeff. Thus, it must have been, at best, a daydream. Conjecture. He didn’t have many social contacts outside of the faculty, it was only natural to long for human affection from the only person around.

He genuinely cared about Jeff, too. They worked well together and, more than once, the boy’s unbridled enthusiasm and potential had brightened Oberon’s day. Which made it all the more important to forget about the moment at the pool, one-sided as it must have been. Thankfully, the distance made it easy – as did the distractions of winter, such as it was in the middle of Brazil.

Christmas Eve found him in the darkened booth of a bar, a splash of scotch and a tall glass of spiked egg nogg in front of him. Two booths down, smoke oozed from the tip of a half-burned cigar, heavy and sweet. The leather of the seat frayed under Oberon’s fingers; five more loose threads than last year.

“Sheldon.”

He looked up.

Dean Thorpe stood in front of him, a wide grin splitting his face. He placed his own drink – sugar-rimmed and yellow at the top, bleeding into a deep, tomato red – on the rickety table and slid in next to Oberon. “My friend. It’s been a while.”

“Yes. A whole week since the start of the holidays,” Oberon deadpanned, making space. “How’s the wife?”

“Busy.”

She’d probably kicked him out, like every year. Oberon smiled into his drink. “The kids?”

“Not coming.”

“And your father?”

“Even older than he was the last time around.”

Oberon himself didn’t have any close family left. Aunts and nephews and cousins, sure; people who could be found if he were to look hard enough, but none who played a sufficiently large role in his life to warrant such an effort. Not even for Christmas. Furthermore, a small part of him didn’t want to impose on their peaceful get-togethers as the uncle who dug around in no man’s land instead of getting an actual job. Although maybe the children would find it ‘cool.’

Instead, he and Thorpe had made up their own little Christmas tradition, including over-sweetened, alcoholic drinks, expensive liquor and very few words.

Except the dean seemed to be having some trouble with that last one, today. His eyes were sparkling when he leaned over. “My friend, my oldest friend. How have things been going?”

Oberon, startled by the sudden closeness, leaned away. “Huh?”

“I’m surprised you’re still here, actually. It’s the first time in, what, three years? You usually have that friend of yours fly you out somewhere by the first of December; save you from that bad case of cabin fever you get when holding lectures. Byron, right? Must be nice to have friends with a plane.”

Oberon’s eyebrow twitched defensively. “I don’t get cabin fever.”

Thorpe laughed. “Oh, yes, you do.”

“Things are going _fine_,” Oberon grumbled. He twirled his glass, and suddenly found something to say. “Jefferson is a wonderful help.”

The dean’s face fell. “Oh, no. Now they got you, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“The cartographers.” Thorpe heaved a heavy sigh. “They’re coming for us all. There goes most of the archaeology’s budget for the next couple of years.”

Oberon had no idea what to say to that, so he took a sip of his scotch. It slid down his throat like butter, leaving a pleasant burn behind.

“There was something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, actually,” Thorpe said. “Incidentally, it also involves that student. I’ve… heard some things.”

Oberon’s insides went cold. “What things?”

“He’s from America, isn’t he?”

Unsure where this was going, Oberon shifted in his seat. “Yes.”

“Good kid, that boy.” Thorpe twirled his glass, which was already half empty, leaving only red at the bottom, sludge-y with crushed ice. “You’ve been getting attached, haven’t you?”

The cold sharpened, twisting Oberon’s guts. “You talked to Gunsteen.”

“Yeah.” The dean leaned in. “I’m glad you’re furthering the boy’s education, but Sheldon, please think carefully about this. He’s a _cartography_ student; from another country, no less. He won’t be sticking around once he has that degree in his pocket.”

Oberon’s chest gave a painful squeeze. At the same time, his cheeks flushed. His hand trembled around his glass, shaken by the implication.

Slowly, Thorpe shook his head. “If your mind is made up, I know I can’t stop you. But remember, if you make him your protégé–”

Relief crashed into Oberon, hard enough it would have knocked him off his feet were he not already sitting. He drew a mouthful of smoky air into his lungs, relishing the way his ribcage expanded. Then he immediately felt foolish. What _else_ would this have been about? A… a fantasy that didn’t have time to thrive? Something that didn’t even exist outside of his own head?

Thorpe crunched the ice in his glass. “A research assistant is one thing, but if you really wanted him to learn your craft in a more intimate manner, I couldn’t really refuse. Although I want to strongly encourage you to take a look at Andrew’s archaeology graduates. You know, the ones who’re going down to Venezuela in the new year, to take a look at that beautiful exclusive dig site–”

Oberon held up a hand. “I have no intention of making him my protégé.”

Thorpe’s gaze snapped to his. “You don’t?”

“Even if I wanted to,” – and there were few things Oberon considered more unpleasant than having a yapping, over-eager student hot on his heels at all times of the day – “I was under the impression that the faculty was a bit tight on funds at the moment. Thanks to said exclusive dig site.”

“True.” Thorpe nodded sagely. “But expertise such as yours needs to be preserved. Future generations need experts, too.”

He threw back the rest of his drink and stood up. “My friend, it’s been a pleasure.”

Oberon blinked. He hadn’t even finished half his egg nogg. Then he remembered: even if she was making him feel unhelpful in the kitchen, Thorpe was probably eager to get back to his wife.

“À propos! Speaking of.” Thorpe beamed. “Do get yourself an appropriate protégé soon, will you? It would make us look good at the conference in February.”

Oberon’s jaw dropped. “_What?_”

“I’ll be expecting your pick first thing in January. Merry Christmas.”

He waved and walked off, leaving a gaping Oberon alone at the table.

–

Oberon spent the rest of the holidays either swimming, in his office, or on the couch in a half-drunk stupor, semi-trying to read up on any new findings in journals he peer-reviewed anyways. The days seemed to drag and rush past at the same time. While he didn’t feel any more relaxed by the time January rolled around, he was clear on one thing: there was not a single student among the current crop fit to become his protégé.

He went in on Friday with the intention of telling Thorpe just that. The faculty staff was back already, stocking the coffee machines and re-distributing the collected house plants to their rightful windowsills.

Oberon had barely rounded the ficus in the hallway when he ran smack-dab into… someone. He reared back, a blur of black leather whizzing past his field of vision. Dark hair, brown eyes, a lopsided grin. A hand appeared on his elbow, steadying him before he could fall bottom-first into the ficus.

“Happy New Year, professor.”

Oberon could hear the laugh in his voice. When he looked up, Jeff was smiling down at him. He seemed paler than before, possibly due to having spent the past two weeks in a colder climate, but it didn’t do his handsome face any harm.

Oberon’s traitorous heart threatened to skip a beat at the sight, and he quickly straightened and shook off the hand. “Jefferson. Um. Welcome back.”

“Where you off to, prof?”

“I–,” Oberon stopped, blinking. He had no idea. Shaking his head, he turned back to his office. “Nowhere. It can wait. But it’s a good thing you’re here, you can help me with the big fish.”

The ‘big fish’ was actually a cluster of several animal remnants that looked mammalian in origin. They didn’t have the means, nor the patience, to pick it apart in situ, instead opting to send it home to land on Oberon’s desk in Manaus. He’d known it was coming, seeing as he’d been the one to pack it up, but the task of carefully separating half a dozen petrified skeletal remains seemed daunting nonetheless. Not to mention the fact that it was supposed to be finished five weeks ago. But there was nothing to be done.

Together, the two of them managed to heft the block onto his desk and, once they were sure the wood would be able to hold the weight, went to work.

They found back to their usual rhythm with no effort whatsoever. Oberon stood bent over the fossil, completely focused, holding out his hand to ask for this tool or that – chisels, brushes, sandpaper, a ruler – and Jeff handed them to him, like a surgical assistant. Everything that wasn’t needed, he returned to its proper place. Whenever Oberon was done with a particular area, Jeff wiped it down with a barely wet cloth.

Fully absorbed, neither of them noticed the splatter of sunlight on the wall turn from white to bright yellow to orange to red. Stone dust built up on the carpet in front of the desk and their exposed toes as, gradually, the shapes of bones and fangs emerged from the sedimentary rock. Until, all of a sudden, it became too dark to see anything.

Jeff groaned, stretching his hands over his head. “Phew. Prof, how about a break?”

Oberon, who had been leaning onto his elbow for at least the past hour, stretched, and had the unpleasant experience of hearing every single vertebra of his spine crack with the movement. He rubbed his lower back, glancing at the clock. It was almost eight. They’d been at it for six hours, not a single one of which he felt fly by.

He turned to Jeff. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to keep you here for so long.” He stepped past him and hurried to the door.

“That’s fine,” Jeff called out behind him. “I didn’t have anything to do today, anyways.”

Oberon opened his office. Warm air rushed in, rich with oxygen. “Thank you for sticking around, then. Grab something to eat before you head home.”

“Will do. What about you, though?” Jeff hummed thoughtfully, then started to grin. “Oh, I know! We could go grab a bite together.”

Oberon, at once struck with the memory of the pool and the implications of being seen out with his _student_, of all people, flinched. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jeff snorted. “Come on, prof. Do you really want to tell me you’re _not_ going to go straight back to that fossil once I’m out the door?”

He looked away, cheeks flushing. That had indeed been his plan, yes. The work needed to be done – and he had a feeling he was going to need the distraction now, too.

“You could use a break at least as much as I do. Probably even more so,” said Jeff. “No one’s going to clean up these fossils if you get sick.”

That… was true. Oberon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Jeff stepped closer to him, his voice coaxing. “Just this once, eat something with me, please?”

“Alright.” Oberon waved a hand. “If you’re not going to be satisfied otherwise, I suppose we could go for a sandwich in the canteen.”

“Yes!” Jeff fist-bumped the air. “Although the canteen is closed by now. But don’t worry, I know a place.”

–

The place Jeff took him to was downtown, yet could only be described as a _tavern_. There was no other denominator to summarize such a corner of cramped, intimate darkness; except this was still Manaus, and instead of caving inwards, all of the tiny establishment’s tables and chairs spilled out the front door, littering the street. Waitresses in red flitted between the patrons, handing out tall, sweating glasses and plates heaped with food.

Jeff didn’t hesitate a second before diving into the mass of bodies. “Over there, professor!”

Oberon had trouble following him, being more rotund than the lithe student and all. By the time he got to the table, even the waitress was already there.

“Good night, boys. What can I get you?”

Oberon flopped onto the chair, realizing too late that it was more delicate than expected, and hastily grabbed the table to balance himself. It probably wouldn’t have been necessary – he could feel the warmth of another person’s back right by his shoulder, that guy would have broken his fall. Oberon shifted uncomfortably.

“– and you, sir?”

He started. “Huh?”

“The food,” Jeff said, mouth twitching.

“Oh.” Oberon cleared his throat. “Whatever you’re having, I guess.”

“Gotcha.”

The waitress disappeared, like a will-o’-wisp in a bank of fog, without so much as brushing an elbow or stepping on a stray foot.

Oberon wriggled again. The night air was a cool balm on the back of his neck, but not enough to make him forget the people around him. He hated crowds. They made him claustrophobic.

Jeff caught him moving and frowned. Then he cast his gaze down, looking a little sheepish. “I should have noticed. This is not usually your kind of environment, is it?”

“Not really,” Oberon said dryly. “It’s fine. It’s actually kind of refreshing after being cooped up in the office all day.”

At least the smoke from the open candles and gas lamps kept the mosquitoes away.

Jeff bit his lip. “No need to be courteous, prof. It was my oversight. I apologize.”

“There’s no need to–”

“If you’d prefer to leave, we can.”

Now it was Oberon’s turn to look away. He felt heat rise into his cheeks and was glad, for a moment, that the poor lighting would hide the change of color. He wasn’t even sure what he was so embarrassed about: it was true, he didn’t like social settings, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle it. “No need. Besides, we’ve already ordered.”

“If you say so.” Jeff leaned back in his chair, narrowly avoiding knocking his head on a rusty drain pipe. “I’m sure Suzanne would let us off scot free if I asked her to.”

He knew the waitress’ name. An ugly feeling reared its head in Oberon’s chest and he quickly squashed it. “So this is your usual haunt, I presume?”

If he came here often, that meant his friends likely frequented the locale as well – and it had never brought anyone much street cred, so to speak, to be seen hanging out with one’s professor. Not back in his time, anyways. Jeff, however, looked wholly unbothered by the prospect of being branded a ‘teacher’s pet’ – or worse – when he nodded, so Oberon didn’t point it out.

Instead, he watched as Jeff leaned even further back in his chair. The movement pulled up his shirt, revealing a strip of skin just above the waistband of his pants. Oberon’s mouth abruptly went dry.

He quickly jerked his gaze away. “I’m– I’m sorry, what did you...”

Oberon trailed off.

Jeff was staring at him. His eyes were as dark as they’d been that evening at the pool; his lips slightly parted. He darted his tongue out to wet them. “I… They have good beer here?”

It came out more than a little distracted. Not that Oberon could fault him for that – he found himself quite unable to look away, as well. The world narrowed down to him and Jeff and the table between them, at once wide as an ocean and narrow as a hair’s breadth, leaving no space for thoughts. The air grew thick, heavy, like the touch of a palm on his cheek. He swayed, suddenly dizzy.

A plate clattered onto the table between them like a thunderclap in the jungle. “Here you go, boys,” Suzanne trilled.

Oberon flinched hard enough to topple his chair. He flailed, flinging his hands out for purchase, anything. He caught the shoulder of the guy behind him again.

The man swung around, eyebrows drawn together, but his expression shifted immediately when he realized what had happened. He grabbed Oberon by the arm and pulled him up.

Oberon regained his balance, shakily sitting back down. “Thanks.”

Jeff had jumped to his feet also. His eyes were very wide. “Professor, are you okay?”

“Oh, dear,” said Suzanne.

Oberon held up both hands. “I’m unharmed. Just hungry,” he added, to lighten the mood.

It worked: Suzanne shrugged and vanished again. Jeff wasn’t as easily appeased, though. “Are you really alright?”

“Yes, yes.” Oberon waved the concern away, flustered. “Nine lives of cats, and all that.”

The boy didn’t look convinced.

Instead of replying, Oberon busied himself with his food. Laid out before him was a mound of fried vegetables, under which an equally fried fish was buried. Beside the plate stood a mug of beer, warm and watery. He’d picked the brew because it wasn’t likely to make him too drunk, but now he wished he’d gone for something stronger, despite the small voice at the back of his mind telling him what a terrible idea that would have been. He picked up a fork and started eating.

He almost didn’t dare look up. Jeff was quieter than usual; his only sounds the clatter of cutlery on porcelain. Eventually, curiosity got the better of Oberon, and he risked it.

He needn’t have worried: Jeff was completely absorbed in his food. His cheeks glowed in the warm, yellow light from the dirty gas lamp on the wall above their heads, and his lips glistened with fat, their shine renewed every time he took a bite. Oberon caught himself stealing glances at him again and again, the sinking feeling in his stomach turning more oppressive with every time it happened.

Eventually, Jeff’s lips curved when he looked at them, revealing a hint of his perfect rows of white teeth. It was that same, lopsided grin that never failed to make Oberon’s pulse quicken.

Jeff leaned in, his face full of mirth. “Like what you see, professor?”

Oberon dropped his fork.

A moment passed, drowned in the chatter of the other guests around them. Then, something warm and soft brushed Oberon’s exposed ankle. A foot. Jeff’s foot.

Oberon jumped away, even though he hadn’t finished his meal yet. His fists clenched at his sides. “This was a bad idea.”

“Prof,” Jeff began, alarmed, but Oberon fumbled a couple of bank notes from his pocket and threw them onto the table, hoping it was enough to cover everything.

Jeff grabbed his wrist. “Professor–”

His touch glowed, warmer than anything Oberon had ever felt before. It was firm and steady. Like a steamer on the amazon. The expression on his face was anything but, though; a mixture of fear and determination. As always, Jeff found his footing much quicker than Oberon.

“Stay,” he pleaded.

Oberon’s breath stuck in his throat. He wrenched his hand away and turned on his heel. He didn’t stop running until the door of his flat fell shut behind him, hollow in the dark and so very final.

– 

First thing on Monday, the first day of the second half of the winter semester, Oberon knocked on dean Thorpe’s door. He’d remembered his original intention of going there yesterday, but he had a different reason now.

Thorpe turned from his contemplation of the upside-down map when the door opened. “Oberon,” he said pleasantly. “I expected you two days ago.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. Things to do, fossils to wash.” Oberon hadn’t come to play his boss’ games. “I need a favor.”

Thorpe’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not another research assistant, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“... Sheldon? Are you alright? You look green around the nose.”

Oberon’s jaw twitched. “You were right, I need to pick a protégé.”

The dean’s face brightened. “I knew you’d see reaso–”

“Therefore, I will examine Andrew Seymour’s graduate class on their upcoming trip to Venezuela.”

Thorpe’s initially hopeful expression faltered. “But– What about your work here?”

“It can wait.” Oberon stared his oldest friend down. “I’m leaving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notes I made for the rest of this fic two years ago are totally unintelligble to me now. Watch as I try to wrestle them into a coherent storyline.


End file.
